Living life in segments, like an orange, each one self-contained and with its own pits. "The rabbit of the fruit world", Rilke called it. So many seeds to spread itself.
The fruit falls not far from the tree.
Living life as a composition, choosing family carefully. Building oneself. Rebuilding oneself.
Moving on. I average two years.
I think this life is wearing out, the details are getting thin around the edges and the old lives are leaking through.
This morning (suddenly, surprising me), a girl that i'd had a crush on in college served me my chai. She'd left Bard and moved to the next street over from me.
Tonight i was walking around downtown and touching media. I went to the bookstore and thought i saw my "boyfriend"'s best friend. Who lives in the distance. A secret affair, if you must know.
Incidentally, it is not such a good idea to live a complicated life.
Only, what he looked like 2 years ago, when he graduated from Bard. It wan't him. I dawdled in the art section, the anthropology section, poetry and philosophy. I coveted the books but i know that if i buy them it'll be more stuff to move.
At the used music store i saw that kid from my first high school, who used to date my neightbor. He didn't say hello. He was working. I bought some gamelan music because it reminds me of my best friend, who is distant. I turned to leave and there was a girl from Bard, an ex-fling of the guy i thought i saw. Since i last saw her, i'd heard a lot of strange things about her, from him. She's supposed to be in Israel! How could she be here? i turned and went all the way around the store to avoid interaction.
i ran across the street and left an incoherent message for that guy on his answering machine in Brooklyn.
i went and wrote a frenzied letter to a friend in England, because i couldn't get him out of my head.
nearly noplace was open, i settled for a new-agey card.
while writing, i saw a girl from my second high school. she was very tall and used to wear long red capes and was very smart. she was one of the few people who made me argue. I pretended i was not there. i wrote frantically about tragic flaws.
can stupidity be a tragic flaw?
i remembered after i'd written it that he'd never read Hamlet. much less Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. nor had i, for quite a while.
i started seeing ghosts. of friends that i would want to see, that are nowhere i know of.
usually in this town, i am the ghost, i don't know anyone. i have no one to run from. it's good being a ghost.
everything seems to be running together in an unsatisfactory way. i have lost the illusion of control. i wonder if it is still art? i need some time to think and gather in.
"center of centers, self-contained and growing sweet."

sorry about the rant, it was just overwhelming.

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